


a portrait of a tortured you and I

by v_darkstar



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Choking, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dubious Consent, How Do I Tag, M/M, Precious Greirat needs more love, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 01:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7146377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_darkstar/pseuds/v_darkstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greirat goes against the Ashen One's wishes and does take that third scavenging trip to Lothric Castle even though he was told not to, and while there the thief runs into a whole another kind of trouble than what he was ever expecting. </p><p>(aka the fix-it for the ending of Greirat's questline)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a portrait of a tortured you and I

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy this was mighty fun to write, greirat needs love guys c'mon he's precious cinnamon roll. this was also meant to be a quick drabble of rough sexy times between the two with aftercare/cuddling buuuut my brain went out the window with ideas about the lore and my personal headcannons so welp this will be a baby monster of a fic once it's all posted. was mainly written because of [Luffik](http://luffik.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr i mean woow Luff has made gorgeous fanart of these two just in replies to my asks :'3 makes me all hrrrnrhgfhg happy.
> 
> I have to apologize if it seems a little clunky and/or worded weirdly in the start; I haven't written anything in a long time so it was a lil difficult to get the hang of it again (but it's like riding a bike) beta-read by myself too so sorry for any errors.
> 
> I also mentioned my player character's name as little as possible since I want you guys to be able to picture your Unkindled One in his spot if you wish it so! Has been tagged under non-con btw just because the lines will be a little blurred because y'know the Outrider Knight can't really ask Greirat nicely if they can do the do.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~while writing this I had the idea to write a Beauty and the Beast!AU for this pairing too I am trash but it'd be perfect~~
> 
>  
> 
> also five points to whoever guesses the Rosaria's Fingers fanatic that is mentioned in this correctly :x 
> 
> comments are loveu~

It’s not that Greirat has a deathwish per say, or that he longs to end it all, but he can easily say that he doesn’t wish to simply twiddle his thumbs until his heart goes into shock one day, blinking out of existence without doing something, anything (like with what happened to Loretta, his mind viciously whispers before he stamps it out).

Greirat thinks of himself as a simple enough man, now a mere petty thief from the Undead Settlement, no longer the one and only ‘Greirat the Thief’ that was known wide and far as both a nuisance and a symbol, but even still he feels some sort of spark of motivation, some sort of drive that urges him to go out to scavenge more and more and more and more. He’s not a fickle man, he doesn’t go out to loot corpses and chests alike for himself - no, no, what would be the point in that - but he can admit that seeing the Ashen One, Alexander, as he widens his eyes whenever he sees Greirat once again at the Firelink Shrine (each and every time!) he comes back from a pillage alights something within Greirat, and then the subsequent profuse declarations of appreciation that stream from his mouth when Greirat produces new weapons and ware for the young Enkindled to examine for himself is enough to make Greirat preen.

Old Loretta is gone, but Greirat isn’t alone like how he thought he’d be months ago.

If anyone else was to give their opinion they'd say it was a double edged sword; the more purpose in life the Ashen One provides to him, the more Greirat feels he needs to repay him - whether it be in the way he hastily insists the other stay safe every time they talk, almost stumbling the words out, or the way he itches to leave the Shrine and find something new, something precious, something of value that Alexander would find use of.

Greirat hasn't had a friend in so, so long and he doesn't fancy losing one of such quality either.

 

;

 

Humming to himself, Greirat carefully binds the bundle of arrows together, making sure not to knick both the wooden shafts of it's peers or his fingers against the pointed arrowheads.

Today he has the Shrine almost to himself, the Fire Keeper ever present of course, but Alexander has been gone for a week already so it appears that Orbeck, Irina, Karla and even Cornyx seem to have gone off to do whatever it is they do when they aren't awaiting new spells to decipher - maybe they're actually looking for tomes themselves for once?

Greirat shrugs lightly to himself, he's just glad the Yuria lady has disappeared for now; the way she seems to both sneer and look down her nose at him without taking her helmet off unnerves him quite a lot more than he'll ever admit.

Prior to the Ashen One’s latest departure Greirat himself had requested permission to go out on another scavenge but Alexander had dismissed that idea quickly than the thief had expected. Sure it was dangerous, especially in comparison to his last two pillages, but Greirat almost bounces in his spot imagining what loot is ripe for the picking inside Lothric Castle, and it's not like the Twin Princes would miss a sword or two, especially if Greirat doesn't go further than a few floors in.

He knows he is technically betraying his friend in some way by going against his wishes and going to the Castle anyway, but he can deal with the lecture and disappointed looks after he has brought back enough new gear and resources to ensure the Ashen One is safer whenever he next goes out on his mission to save the world, or what’s left of it.

So, albeit begrudgingly Greirat dusts off his hands and examines the supplies he's gathered, counting each item twice before putting them away inside his pack - the pack that would be empty just before the time he's due to return, so ergo plenty of free space for all the loot he'd be coming across just lying around pretty for the picking.

Snickering happily to himself, Greirat pulls the pack over his shoulder and sneaks out the back of the Shrine. He feels a little paranoid doing it but he doesn't trust that Handmaid from dobbing on him, it's not like it's his fault that he sells most of the same gear for cheaper, which means he gets more sales sure, but there's nothing wrong with a bargain! Nothing wrong at all!

 

;

 

Lothric Castle is both as breathtaking and as daunting as he had pictured in his mind from the tales off the streets and the information he had gathered from sources - those dubious and those reliable alike - and also so much more than he expected up close. One would have to be blind to not have seen Lothric Castle at least from a distance, but standing inside it's higher levelled wards is a vastly different experience than glancing at it from the very edge of the Undead Settlement or from the High Wall.

Greirat can't stop the happy smile from touching his lips even if he wanted it to, he can smell the ash of burning flesh! No, not that the smell of death excites him, no! Heavens no, he cringes at the thought. It's the fact that if there is burning flesh then that means there might be something or someone extraordinary doing said burning of flesh, and said creature might be guarding such unspeakable loot that requires the apparent scalding and incineration of limbs and organs, not necessarily in that order of course, because it is such a bounty indeed that most would deem the risk of death worth it, even in this decrepit, dying world.

How could the Ashen One stay angry at him if he brought back whatever item was behind such a threat; after all, the hostile guardian of the potential loot would hardly expect someone to sneak past their very back, not with all the smoke and the scent of fiery death in the air! No, most would rush in mindlessly, greedily attacking for a chance at some hope of anything valuable in these times, but Greirat isn't most people. Greirat prides himself on his ability to wait out his target until there's just enough of an opening for him to slip by unnoticed; a master thief isn't a warrior for a reason, and he's alive because of this (and that one time that peculiar Onion Knight aided him yes, but better to accept help and survive than to be, well, dead after all).

It takes him almost three hours to make it past all the hollow corpses undetected and unscathed for the most part, it's pushing noon and he's only had to slit two throats on his journey deeper into the castle.

He's already found a few trinkets that weigh his pack down only a little but coming across anything that's both substantial and mostly intact is proving difficult as usual; why must creatures use blunt spears and shields riddled with holes for goodness sake. It's like fate is purposefully drawing Greirat closer to the origin of that smoky scent of death, provoking him with the allure of danger and great rewards.

He knows it's inevitable, how could he leave without at least checking it out with his own eyes, but coming across something shiny and/or useful this far in would be a nice bonus too.

Dashing through a seemingly inconspicuous room, he has to thank lady luck for making most of the way through Lothric Castle so far a clean one, never mind a few knights here and there. Greirat only hates that he can't open any of the loot chests he sees, the temptation is there, quite so, but the nasty scars that run down his left arm, face and torso serve as a harsh reminder of what happens when one gets too hasty and chews off more than they can swallow. Giving a wide berth to the chest that may be something else in disguise, he swallows around the phantom sensation of wet blood and sharp pain that helps sober his excitement, but only just, he's long accepted that the now mostly faint but violent scars that mark him are as much a part of him as the hat on his head, albeit a tad more permanently but regardless it gives him more character he reassures himself, and if someone takes offense then he can either hide behind his hood or, he chuckles lightly to himself, they can stand on his right side so all they see is his unmarked profile instead of a face-on view.

If the scarred and torn side of his lower lip, the patch where his left eyebrow refuses to grow back through the scar tissue, and the jagged lines on his cheek offend then that is the other person's problem, not his.

Doesn't mean he'd like to take on a Mimic again though, better safe and without an enchanted accessory than to lose a limb or even worse this time.

It takes him another half an hour until he reaches the peak of the tower he's commandeered as his own in his mind, easily the best location to scope the zone, and it's at that moment his breath shudders to a halt. Not only one ferocious beast, but two, two fantastic creatures lay before him, and they're wyverns of all things. Greirat giggles lightly, how lucky was he to be seeing two at once, but even so he has to admit that he'll be having to take things a lot quieter and swifter considering, the deadly flame from the two wyverns wouldn't be able to harm him once he made it under the platform the leftmost dragon was perched above, but getting there would require him scaling the long way around the building said platform was part of, otherwise he'd risk drawing the ire of the wyvern on the other side as he slipped past the first one.

With a cautious plan in mind, he waits until the sun has just set before making his way across the rooftops, already eyeing one ladder that would take him from the specific building's roof, downwards until he hit the now-visible alcove which he could then drop down from into the open room nestled under the left wyvern.

It takes time, these things always do, but Greirat finds himself reaching Point A of his route - the building's rooftop - with surprising ease.

Which means it's typical that he finds himself almost eye to eye with a stranger as his hands grasp the ledge, almost pulling himself up to the roof before he jolts in spot as a moment of panic hits him. Does he quickly kill the person and continue on? Or maybe he should- hang on… Pushing past his shock, Greirat tilts his head to the side, squinting behind his hood even if the stranger can't see it, and has a moment of conflict within himself.

While the stranger does have wavy shoulder length brown hair and a pale complexion, the face that stares back at him is definitely masculine, so why is this person wearing that outfit of all things.

“Why have you dressed yourself up as a maiden?” Greirat blurts out before he can stop it.

The stranger makes a high-pitched distressed noise in the back of his throat and yanks Greirat up onto the roof, flinching away when he finds Greirat’s dagger against his neck in the next instance.

“P-Pardon me, Sir?” the brunette sounds unsure whether using that title is correct but carries on anyway, “I'd very much appreciate if you'd not slash my neck open just yet. I didn't mean to cause alarm but on the other side of this awning there are three undead creatures that have kept me pinned here for the last half day. One of them carries firebombs and I thought it'd be better to get you behind cover before he tosses one and hits you in the face.”

Greirat pulls the blade away from the stranger's throat, but only slightly; should this person strike out Greirat will have his neck spurting out enough blood that he'd be dead in a mere minute.

“Ah yes, but that still begs the question. Why is a crossdressing man hiding out on a roof in such a peculiar and dangerous location hmm?” Greirat taps his chin through the thick material of his hood, “a seemingly unarmed, dirty and appearingly sickly man at that.”

The stranger flinches, “I-I am not unarmed, I am a pyromancer I'll have you know, a fairly decent one at that, but a pyromancer without any reserves to fuel said fire at the moment, hence my being trapped up here. I was planning on making my way through the hallway across that far roof,” he points towards the open doorway the three undead stand before, “but as I went to hurl one last fire orb to clear the way I realised I was drained dry of power.”

Greirat would almost laugh if the risk of this being a falsified lie wasn't as high a chance as being the actual truth.

The man flushes and Greirat can see the exasperation is his eyes as his eyebrow twitches slightly, “My name is Gilbert and I'm wearing this embarrassing garb because one of Rosaria’s raving lunatics thought it'd be entertaining to watch his former friend run around almost naked, luckily I found this outfit nearby but unluckily it's not much better than being in nothing I'm afraid.”

“You have peculiar friends,” he hums in response, “I am Greirat of the Undead Settlement and I hope I'm not making a mistake by giving you this, strange Gilbert.”

Before the Pyromancer can question him, Greirat hands him one flask of a Hidden Blessing that he’d found on his way to Lothric Castle.

Gilbert’s eyes shoot up to meet those of the Thrall’s hood, “You're giving me this? Such a rare potion to a stranger?”

“I was once freed from an agonisingly slow death, wasting away forgotten in a cell by a stranger so I believe it's only fair I extend the favour to another at least once in my lifetime.” Greirat sheathes his dagger, “My way leads me down off this rooftop, so I can't do much more but draw the attention of the three creatures over there on my way down to the room below. Make sure you've guzzled that down and are ready to burn them alive before they do after me, yes?”

Greirat smiles and pats Gilbert on the shoulder, the wyverns shouldn't notice them even with some mild commotion, but time is still of the essence.

He throws his pack over his back again and makes ready to leap out from cover, “If you're ever needing a safe place, even for awhile in this blasted world, I know a good spot! Head for the Firelink Shrine, it's one of the only havens around and a good man looks after it well.”

With once last nod, Greirat flings himself over the awning, laughing lightly to himself as the breeze ruffles his thin clothing against his skin.

He barely hears the “Thank you so, so much, Sir Greirat!” that Gilbert calls out and then there's the rushing heat of a fireball soaring through the air just before Greirat fully swings down from the railing and into the room he most suspects the best loot to be in, due to the fact it's mostly shielded by half a wyvern’s wing.

 

;

 

 

The climb down is a mostly easy one; the design of the castle itself is an elegant but strategically reinforced one allowing many small gaps and ornate ledges for Greirat to use as grasps and to balance against, and Greirat thanks the heavens once again for making him as small as he is because he can’t imagine someone tall and well built - like the Ashen One for example - managing to hang from the tips of his fingers without slipping to his death.

He has to quickly dispatch another of the mostly-dead husks that was patrolling aimlessly through the open room, but otherwise is in the blind spots of both wyverns and has a moment to catch his breath.  
From the looks of it he can either go through a nearby doorway that leads out to a balcony or he can go down the small set of stairs that lead to a small square room.

The choice is an easy one.

He cautiously peeks his head over the railing and looks down the staircase. Greirat can easily see three treasure chests and a clutter of bookcases through the dark (and the lack of windows at least means no vantage points for someone or something to off him while he’s taking a closer look).

As he swiftly makes his way down the steps he shudders a bit, why is it so cold in here he thinks to himself, absentmindedly wrapping his arms around his middle.

There isn’t anyone in sight, although he’s not taking his chances with those chests because of, well, reasons.

He’s busy scavenging through old wooden crates, so busy with ripping open their lids, that he doesn’t notice the faint flickering of the wall behind him or the instant it seems to just disappear out of nowhere. He also doesn’t notice the large figure clad in armour, and that said figure has noticed him.

There is no sense of doom or shrill warning cry resounding throughout the castle halls, only the faint clink of gauntlets against the floor and another sudden drop of temperature before Greirat vaguely senses something is amiss and is twisting away just barely in time to avoid getting tackled by something launching itself on all fours at him. The creature’s right hand strikes out at Greirat’s head as it is mid-leap and the thief barely has enough time to fling himself backwards onto the ground to try avoid it, preventing his head from leaving his shoulders permanently but sacrificing his hood in the process, now in shreds across his face. He has but seconds to throw it off to both stop the now warped metal collar from slashing his carotid artery or jugular open, and to stop the now ratty material from blocking his sight in a situation where he definitely doesn’t want to be at a disadvantage.

The room seems impossibly colder without it on and he shakes in the spot where he’s sprawled across the floor. Greirat fumbles backwards before his movements and his breath freezes as he notices that the thing in front of him is no simple knight or hollowed creature.

The annoying tickle of hair in his face and the scrapes along with palms barely pass a mention in his brain because in front of him is undoubtedly what the Ashen One has called a Boreal Outrider Knight.

Greirat knows he can’t possibly hope to win in a battle against such a thing, so he does what he does second best; he jolts up in a second and sprints as fast as he can away from the creature and towards the stairs where he has some hope of escaping mostly intact.

He makes it within a metre or so of the staircase before he’s yanked backwards onto the floor once more. His back hits the ground with such force that he’s momentarily winded as the air is forced from his lungs.

Panicking, he tries to scramble away but then the Outrider Knight is looming over him, huge frame towering above.

Greirat has never seen something so graceful and yet so primal in his life. The Knight growls lowly in it’s throat almost as often as a pleased cat purrs yet it’s movements are fluid and well-practiced enough that it betrays many years of practice and fine repetition and training.

He has no idea why he isn’t dead yet but, as his breath shakes with each exhale, Greirat stays incredibly still, as still as humanly possible, to try and not aggravate the creature into a frenzy. For some reason it is clear that while it is obviously hostile, it isn’t aggressive at least for the moment.

The beast of a man presses it's weight further down onto Greirat, the breath and very aura of the armoured being chilling his skin where it touches him through his thin clothing.

It could almost pass for a protective embrace with the way the Knight curls over the thief’s significantly smaller form, if not for the deep dig of sharp gauntlets into the ground - like a threatening cage used to trap its prey - and the way Greirat fruitlessly has his palms pressed against the beast’s plate-covered chest as if to push it away somehow despite his quaking arms and the fear seizing his body.

It doesn't seem real, running into an Outrider Knight of all things, but Greirat can't deny what is practically looming over him, definitely can't deny the chilled breath ruffling his messy hair and pushing his shaggy fringe into his face.

A mantra of oh shit, oh no, oh sod it, why plays on repeat like a broken record inside Greirat’s mind but he refuses to let hysteria hit.

The Outrider Knights of the Boreal Valley were once human, or at least humanoid enough to communicate, right? Greirat widened eyes flicker madly across the helm so very close to him; he definitely remembers the Ashen One mumbling about how absolutely offputting it was to see the residents of the Boreal Valley patrolling endlessly like guarded keepers for the Pontiff, as if brainwashed by the man into living as husks of people to ensure Sulyvahn’s protection. Alexander’s eyes had been awfully haunted that evening, staring into the fire he had lit earlier.

Jolting back to himself, Greirat lowers his hands and shakingly places them by his sides, “H-Hello? Mister Outrider Knight?”

The huge frame above him still huffs and crowds against him but does not seem to particularly understand.

“I'm not foolish enough to expect a response or a civil conversation but you haven't killed or eaten me yet, which many other monsters have tried to do just today so a-ah um,” Greirat clears his throat, “For which I am very grateful of, of course! B-But ah instead of jinxing myself and asking why I am not dead already, I thought I'd try to, ah you see, talk?”

It's hard to tell if any recognition or understanding flashes across the beast’s face due to the heavy armour, but Greirat can almost convince himself that it has paused it's quest to slowly push him into the concrete.

Greirat is shocked to find himself sad between all the fear and the need to survive that courses through him, he pauses, suddenly feeling a little choked up,“You were once a man, you know. Now you are ruled by pure instinct it would appear, poor lost knight.”

And then just like a trigger Greirat barely whispers, “You belonged to the untouchable Irithyll of the Boreal Valley I think, vast and dangerous as it--” before the beast makes a low, almost pained noise in the back of it's throat and pushes it's guarded face into Greirat’s neck as if it is the one that is scared out of it's life.

Drastically aware of the significantly larger creature so close to his neck and the incredibly delicate position this puts him in, Greirat slowly lifts a hand, shakingly placing his fingertips against what would be the creature’s cheek. He realizes then that while the air around them and the heavy breathing the knight emits is cold enough to create frost, the armour that it has donned is warm to the touch through the cold, almost too hot under his fingers, as if the very metal it is made of is restraining something so powerful, so uncontrollable, that it's overheating despite the very essence of winter this being seems to imitate flawlessly.

“Y-You understand me then? Or some of it?” Greirat desperately picks at words until he gets another hopefully semi non-murderous response, “was it Irithyll, or the Valley, Boreal Valley?”

The next noise the creature lets out is as equally anguished as the last, before it starts to growl, gargling out sounds that barely sound like they could be words of another language. It says two things which could maybe be part of some dialect, Greirat is shocked to notice, before it actually does emit something the thief can definitely understand.

The Outrider Knight speaks something in the common tongue, as rough and thick with a foreign accent as it is.

It says one word. “Home.”


End file.
